Araminta Station

by Jack Vance

  “That was his stated intention.”

  Glawen returned to the Tourist Guide. He learned that the “rivers of purple ooze” were in fact colonies of purple jellyfish which slid across the steppe in columns four hundred yards long and thirty yards wide. According to the Tourist Guide, the ‘rivers of ooze” were spectacles to excite even the most blasé: “These wonderful phenomena are notable for the mystery of their being! They thrill us with their eerie beauty! But again, warnings must be cited! All is not gorgeous. The odor exuded by these great worms is quite acrid. Fastidious folk are advised to study the creatures from an upwind vantage.”1

  Glawen, reading further, came upon an article entitled “Zab Zonk: In Song and Story,” in which Zonk’s exploits were chronicled and the dimensions of his fabulous treasure were calculated.

  So far, we are dealing with what seems at least an approximation of fact [wrote the author]. Have others been as judicious? Decide for yourself, from this sampling of Zonk lore. Here is his preferred toast:

  “I cry glory to Zonk, High, Full and Mighty Emperor of the Magnitudes, of Life and Death, of Now and Then, of Hither and Yon, of all things Known and Unknown, of the Universe and all the Elsewheres! Glory to Zonk! So be it. Drink.”

  When signing his name, Zonk was more modest, and his handwriting was oddly delicate: “ZONK: First and last Over-man.”

  From sources unknown but very remote comes this apostrophe:

  “ZONK: Avatar of Phoebus, Sublimation of all Melodious Beauties, He who partakes of Uiskebaugh and Performs the Seventeen Signals of Love!”

  When measured against such vistas, truth must defer, with neither apology nor regret to the far more amiable arrangements of legend.

  Kirdy turned away from the window and seated himself in a chair with his legs outstretched, his head back and his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Glawen put aside the book. “What is your opinion of Tassadero?”

  Kirdy responded in a monotone: “Fexelburg is not too bad. The backcountry is dreary for a fact. The ‘ooze rivers’ give off a fearful chife. I don’t much like the food anywhere. In the towns they douse everything with strange spices and odd vegetables, and I don’t believe they like it themselves, but they have to eat it because it is the new trend. One never knows what to expect and can’t recognize it after it arrives.” Kirdy gave a dreary chuckle. “The ranchers eat well enough but Floreste ruined our visit for us. That was when we saw the purple ooze.”

  “What did Floreste do?”

  “The rancher invited us out to his ranch and fed us royally. His wife and children wanted us to demonstrate one or two of our acts, which we were quite willing to do, but Floreste, avaricious old bastard; demanded a fee. The rancher just laughed and sent us back to Fexelburg. Everyone was fearfully vexed with Floreste. I was on the point of resigning the troupe then and there.” Kirdy gave a sad laugh. “Now I wish I had stayed on. There were no worries, no fears! Everyone knew what he must do. Sometimes, when Floreste wasn’t watching, we could sneak in and play with the girls. Some of them were sheerly beauties! What jolly times we had!”

  Glawen asked: “Did you ever play in Lutwiler Country?”

  “Lutwiler Country?” Kirdy frowned. “Wouldn’t that be the Zubenites? We never went near them. They don’t approve of such frivolity, unless it’s free.”

  “Strange!” said Glawen. “Why should they trouble with Thurben Island?”

  Kirdy’s interest, never too focused, became diffuse, and he returned to staring at the ceiling. Glawen gave silent thanks that the investigation was approaching its end.

  In due course the Camulke landed at the Fexelburg spaceport. Glawen and Kirdy disembarked and were briskly passed through the entry formalities, by officials dressed in unusually natty red and blue uniforms.

  The official at the alien registration counter looked critically from Glawen’s and Kirdy’s documents to their garments: He asked with polite incredulity: “You are officers accredited to the Cadwal police?”

  “That is correct,” said Glawen. “We are also IPCC affiliates.”

  The official was not impressed. “That means little to us. We are not great champions of the IPCC here at Fexelburg.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Let us say, that our priorities are different. They are long on regulation and short on flexibility. In practical cases we have yet to find them useful.”

  That’s surprising! The IPCC is generally well-regarded.”

  “Not in Fexelburg! Party Plock is the adjutant, or adjudicator or double commander, or some such title, and a full martinet to boot. In these parts we must be ready for anything; after all Tassadero is for the most part savage steppe! Flexibility is the watchword and devil take the rulebook. If Triple Commander Partric Plock and his cookie-pushers demur, it can’t be helped. At Fexelburg first things come first.”

  “That sounds reasonable. I’ll be interested to meet this dragon Plock.”

  The official turned a sour side glance at Glawen’s garments. “If you go there dressed as you are, they’ll bar you at the door and call you ‘clown’ besides.”

  “Aha!” said Glawen. “I finally understand your disapproval. These are the only clothes we own. Our luggage was lost and we have not yet made replacements.”

  “The sooner the better! I suggest that you put yourself into the hands of a capable haberdasher. Which is your hotel?”

  “As yet we have made no choice.”

  “Allow me to suggest the Lambervoilles, which offers full prestige and high style. In Fexelburg we are ultramodern in all respects, and you will find nothing dowdy or disreputable.”

  “That is certainly reassuring.”

  “Remember: first things first! Before you attempt Lambervoilles, dress for the public esteem. The Nouveau Salon is just across from the Lambervoilles; they will turn you out in decent style.”

  “What is the most convenient transportation?”

  “Leave the terminal; board the tram car. Presently you will pass a heroic statue of Zab Zonk at the murdering of Dirdie Panjeon. Alight at the next stop; you will see the Lambervoilles on the right hand and the Nouveau Cri on the left. Is all clear?”

  “Quite clear and we thank you for your advice.”

  The two departed the terminal. They boarded a glistening glass and black metal tram and were carried swiftly toward the center of Fexelburg. The local time was midmorning; Zonk’s Star, a large pale disk, rode halfway up the sky. To right and left spread the suburbs of Fexelburg: rows of small bungalows constructed to a jaunty architecture, each flaunting some studiously novel trick of decoration to set it apart from its neighbors. Slender black native frooks, a hundred feet tall, lined the boulevards.

  The tramway swung out into a main thoroughfare, leading into the heart of Fexelburg, with private vehicles moving at speed to either side of the central tramway. The long, low, unnaturally sleek vehicles were apparently designed for ostentation rather than utility; each was enameled in vivid colors and often flew an ensign from a jack staff, displaying the insignia of the owner’s automobile club. In each vehicle, at the top of the control bar, a cluster of keys allowed the driver to play tunes to his mood as he drove, often very loudly, so that the occupants of other vehicles and casual pedestrians might also enjoy the music.

  At the very least; thought Glawen, the city Fexelburg pulsed with frenetic energy.

  Kirdy was still unhappy and rode with the corners of his mouth pinched in, as if at a bitter taste. Glawen wondered if he still resented leaving Soumjiana before his survey of the sausage grills had been completed. Or perhaps he had no liking for Tassadero.

  The tram passed a large statue, depicting Zab Zonk in the act of executing a faithless mistress. Glawen and Kirdy alighted at the next stop, across a small plaza from the Lambervoilles Hotel, which, like every other enterprise of Fexelburg, advertised its presence with a large animated sign. Kirdy pointed to the sign with an air of excited discovery. “There it is! The Lambervoilles!

  Floreste
always took us to the Flinders Inn, where the nomads stay.”

  “Floreste perhaps sees himself and the Mummers as nomads.”

  “Come!” said Kirdy sternly. “This is not the time for jokes.”

  “A thousand apologies.”

  Glawen and Kirdy crossed the boulevard, dodging and running to avoid the vehicles which sped past careless of pedestrians, each driver playing a lively tune on the keys of his control bar.

  A few yards around the plaza a garish animation advertised the Nouveau Cri Haberdashery. The sign depicted a man in a fusty black suit entering a doorway and immediately emerging dressed in stylish new garments. He entered again, to reappear in a different costume. Again and again the man in the black suit passed through the doorway, coming out each time in a new ensemble.

  Kirdy came to a sudden halt. “Where are you going? The hotel is over here!”

  Glawen looked at him in wonder. “Don’t you remember what the official at the spaceport told us?”

  Kirdy scowled. He had hoped to go directly to the Lambervoilles where he might indulge himself in a warm bath and perhaps doze off for an hour or two. “We can buy clothes later.”

  Glawen paid no heed, and continued around the plaza toward the Nouveau Cri, leaving Kirdy staring disconsolately toward the Lambervoilles. Kirdy suddenly became aware of Glawen’s absence. He uttered a startled yell, and ran angrily in pursuit. “You might say something before you make one of those furtive departures!”

  “Sorry,” said Glawen. “I thought you had heard me.”

  Kirdy merely grunted. The two entered the haberdashery. A clerk no older than themselves came forward, halted, stared at their clothes, then spoke in a voice of supercilious politeness: “Sirs? What might be your wishes?”

  “We want a change or two of clothes,” said Glawen. “Nothing too elaborate; we’ll be here only a short time.”

  “I can provide you both suitable outfits. What categorical dimension will you be occupying?”

  Glawen shook his head in puzzlement. “These terms are not familiar to me.”

  Kirdy said shortly: “It is a roundabout way of asking whether we consider ourselves gentlemen or pariahs.”

  The clerk made a delicate gesture. “You are off-world persons, I see.”

  “That is true.”

  “So then: what might be your walk of life? It is important that your clothes reflect your social perspectives. That is a truism of the clothing industry.”

  Glawen spoke haughtily: “Is it not obvious? I am a Clattuc; my friend is a Wook. That should answer your question a dozen times over.”

  “I suppose it must,” said the clerk. “You seem quite definite. Well, then: to the selection. As gentlemen, you will wish to dress as gentlemen, without compromise or false economies. Let me see. For an absolutely minimum wardrobe, you will need a pair of morning suits or, better, three: casual, business and ceremonial.

  Next, a suitable costume for a formal luncheon. Sportswear for afternoon recreation, which may be used for riding in a vehicle, although full and legitimate driving regalia is preferred. For afternoon social events in the company of charming ladies: what we call our pale gray bird-basher. Late afternoon social, of two levels, and dinner gear: formal and informal. All with proper accessories, and a range of hats, at least two dozen.”

  Glawen held up his hand. “All this for a week’s stay?”

  “A wardrobe from the Nouveau Cri will win compliments across the breadth of the Gaean Reach, certainly during the reign of this season’s fashion, which is quite distinctive.”

  “The time for realism has arrived,” said Glawen. “Fit us each with an all-purpose suit that will get us into the Lambervoilles, and maybe a casual outfit or two. We won’t need anything else.”

  The clerk cried out in a fluting voice of distress: “Gentlemen, I will do as you require, but consider my personal example. I honor my body and treat it with the generosity it deserves. It is washed with rainwater and pear-oil soap, then laved with Koulmoura lotion, with tincture of calisthene for the hair. Then I don the freshest of fresh linen and an absolutely proper choice of garments. I deal nicely with my body; it serves me well in return.”

  “It seems a pleasant association,” said Glawen. “Still, my body is less demanding, and Kirdy’s body simply doesn’t care. Give us the garments I have ordered, not too expensive, and we’ll be happy, bodies and all.”

  The clerk gave a sniff of contempt. “I understand your needs at last. Well, I can only do my best.”

  Arrayed in their new garments, Glawen and Kirdy went confidently to the Lambervoilles Hotel and discovered no difficulty either with the doorman nor yet the grand officials at the central desk, where they were assigned chambers high in the central tower overlooking the plaza. As they rode up in the elevator, Kirdy announced his intention first to bathe, then go to bed.”

  “What?” cried Glawen. “It’s not even noon!”

  “I am tired. The rest will do us good.”

  “It may be good for you. Not for me.”

  Kirdy emitted a whimper of sheer frustration. “So what, then, do you propose?”

  “You do as you like. I am going down to the restaurant for lunch.”

  “And I am to be left alone in hunger?”

  “If you are asleep, you will never notice.”

  “Of course I’ll notice, asleep or awake. Bah! As always, you insist on your own way. Do my inclinations mean nothing?”

  Glawen laughed a sad tired laugh. “You know better than to ask a question like that! We were sent here to investigate, not to sleep. And you must be as hungry as I am.”

  Kirdy muttered: “I warn you, the food is bizarre. They will feed us worms and feathers in a sauce of minced gangaree, with ginger and musk on the side. They put ginger in everything; that’s the fashion on Tassadero.”

  “We’ll have to be on our guard.”

  The two descended to the restaurant. Signs and placards urged important new dishes upon them, but Glawen finally ordered from a bill of fare labeled “Traditional and Dietetic Cooking for the Elderly and the Diseased,” which yielded them food more or less congenial to their tastes.

  During the meal Kirdy again proposed that they return to their rooms for a period of total relaxation. Glawen again urged him to do as he liked. “I have other plans in mind.”

  “No doubt connected with this rather pointless investigation?”

  “I hardly consider it pointless.”

  “What do you expect to learn? The tourist agencies all sing the same song. They’ll tell you ruddy chuck-all.”

  “We’ll never be sure if we don’t ask.”

  “I’ve had my fill of tourist agencies,” grumbled Kirdy. “They sell you doughnuts and charge double for the hole.”

  In any event, we can interview the Zubenites who went out to Thurben Island, since we know their names.”

  “They will reveal nothing. Why should they?”

  “Perhaps because we ask them nicely.”

  “Ha-ho! A forlorn hope, if ever I heard one! On this world, as on other worlds, folk exert themselves only to be vexatious.” Kirdy shook his head in bitter despair. “Why is it thus? There are never answers to my questions. Why, indeed, am I alive?”

  “Here, at least, the answer is self-evident,” said Glawen. “You are alive because you are not dead.”

  Kirdy darted Glawen a suspicious glance. “Your remark is more subtle than perhaps you intended it to be. For a fact I cannot conceive of any other condition, which may well be a compelling argument in favor of immortality.”

  “Possibly so,” said Glawen. “I, personally, find it easy to conceive of this other condition. I can readily imagine myself alive and you dead. Does this weaken your argument in favor of immortality?”

  “You have missed the whole point,” said Kirdy. “One thing is sure, at least: the Zubenites will tell you nothing if they think it will get them in trouble. Incidentally - speaking of trouble – have you noticed the two men sitting
at the table yonder?”

  Glawen glanced in the direction Kirdy had indicated. “I notice them now.”

  “I suspect that they are police detectives, and they are watching us. I don’t like that sort of thing. It makes me uneasy.”

  “You must have a bad conscience,” said Glawen.

  Kirdy’s face became even pinker than usual. For an instant he turned the full glare of his china-blue eyes on Glawen, then swung half-around in his chair and gazed moodily off across the room.

  “That was just a joke,” said Glawen. “But you failed to laugh.”

  “It wasn’t funny.” Kirdy continued to brood.

  For a fact, thought Glawen, he doesn’t like me very much. He sighed. “The sooner we are home the better.”

  Kirdy made no reply. Glawen looked again at the two men who might or might not be police detectives. They sat at an inconspicuous table by the wall, conversing in low tones. Both were middle-aged and otherwise much alike: stocky, dark-haired, sallow, heavy of jowl, with clever darting eyes. They wore garments which the Nouveau Cri clerk might have defined as “all-purpose semiformal business wear, at a categorical level of the middle professional service class.”

  “I believe that you are right,” said Glawen. “They look like police officers to me. Well, it’s nothing to us.”

  “But it’s us they are watching!”

  “Let them watch. We have nothing to hide.”

  “Fexelburg police are almost hysterical in their suspicions. Unless you’re a tourist spending lots of money, they wonder about you. Floreste deals with them carefully. It might be wise to request their cooperation.”

  “You may well be right.”

  As they left the dining room, the two men arose, followed them into the lobby and approached. One of the two spoke: “Captain Clattuc? Sergeant Wook?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “We are Inspectors Barch and Tanaquil of the Fexelburg police. May we have a few words with you?”

  Whenever you like.”

  “Now is convenient for us. This way, if you please.”

  The four seated themselves in a quiet corner of the lobby.